Scandal
by Just Inevitable
Summary: 'Because she knows that they're thinking the same thing now. Knows that, at this very moment, he's looking at her, and he's wondering what it would be like to be her husband.' Post Christmas Special 2012.


**Authors' Notes: I've changed the middle. More tension, more realistic now. At least, I hope so. **

* * *

There is a loud clap - wood against cement - as the door entering the servants' wing flies open and hits the wall. From across the corridor, in the hall, Mrs. Hughes jumps. The needle she'd just pulled through the hat had jarred too, and pricks her finger. She exclaims a profanity, which, luckily, is drowned out by the sound of shuffling feet and giggling maids. She sees a spot of red pool onto the pad of her finger, and sighs. Standing up, she considers barking at them now for the noise levels, starts stringing together reprimanding words in her mind. But it's been a long day, her shoulders are slumping and now, her finger hurts. She'll let Mr. Carson take care of it.

"Honestly, you'd think they'd have learned by now…" she mutters.

She drops the hat onto the table and heads into the kitchen to run her finger under some cool water. Even under the squeaky faucet and running water though, she can hear them. Ivy and Daisy are giggling – they're on the best terms they've ever been. She suspects it's because Alfred has finally taken a shining to Daisy, and now, they're gossiping like all good female friends do. Particularly, they're discussing some acquaintances of Lady Rosamund's, as she'd tried to introduce Lady Mary to all sorts of suitors lately. Well actually, it had more to do with their staff, but that was to be expected.

"Apparently, they're trying to keep it buried, 'cuz you know the sort of scandal it might become for the family and…" Daisy says.

"What, you mean with the housekeeper?" Ivy asks.

Mrs. Hughes frowns, turns off the tap, and wonders where the conversation is headed, despite herself. But if there is a response, it too gets covered by more clamouring flooding into the house. Alfred and Jimmy come in now, before Thomas shuts the door roughly, behind them. Jimmy and Alfred are shoving each other, and she can smell the alcohol on them from where she stands, in the kitchen. Frowning, Mrs. Hughes decides that she'd have to be the one to lecture them, before Mr. Carson comes out of the pantry.

"Right, that's enough," she says, going in to confront them. Upon seeing the housekeeper, they all sober a little. But only a little, and just for a moment.

"Mrs. Hughes," Ivy says, not daunted in the least. "Isn't it true that the butler and housekeeper at Lord Waverly's got married?"

Mrs. Hughes' eyes widen, but even if she knew the answer to that question, she would have been cut off.

"Married? Really?" asks Alfred.

There is another excited uproar to be sure, as it is a known fact that such a marriage had always been considered imprudent, and at the very least, impractical. Questions upon questions are being thrown at Ivy now, and Daisy is trying to get the attention back on her, says that the gossip is about something else entirely, but no one is listening. Mrs. Hughes presses her temples, massages them slowly, trying to drown them all out.

"WHAT IS GOING ON?"

Everyone stills.

Pin drop silence falls on the group as Mr. Carson marches outside the pantry, the door thrown open behind him. His face is flushed with anger, his hands balled into fists. Mrs. Hughes walks to his side, a little relieved, if she was being honest. His shouting, she could handle. His was usually short-lived, and if need be, she could put a hand on his arm to calm him. Anyway, there is a certain comfort she finds in his voice, even when raised. After all, she is not intimidated by all his blustering; sees right through it. As far as she's concerned, he is taking care of the problem, and right now, that's all she wants.

And he's off. "You should be ashamed of yourselves! I should have known better than to let you all go this evening. Not only did you all come back twenty minutes past your curfew, _but_ you seem to have forgotten simple manners and the decency to keep your voices _down_!"

They look properly chastised now, and Mrs. Hughes moves a half step forward to take over, before he starts about the honour of the household. "Alright, go on up to bed this instant."

Thomas and the boys disperse, but Daisy seems to have taken the scolding especially hard. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carson," she says.

Ivy is quick to follow. "Yes, Mr. Carson – I'm sorry."

The butler heaves a great big sigh, lowering his shoulders a bit, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Just tell me what was so important that you had to make such a ruckus in the middle of the night?" His voice is gentler now, tired.

Mrs. Hughes tenses, considers stopping the conversation.

"I was telling Ivy about something that happened at Lord Waverly's – a scandal. But she thought it were about the butler and housekeeper gettin' married."

Mrs. Hughes closes her eyes tightly, and she can hear the sharp intake of breath from beside her. "Oh… I see," he says.

"How's that _not_ a scandal?" Ivy asks, turning to Daisy, volume increasing again.

"I dunno! They're happily married, apparently. Everyone's pleased about it; saw it comin' actually. That's what Alice told me," Daisy explains. "Anyway what I really wanted to tell you about–"

"_Thank you_, Daisy," Mr. Carson says. "I've heard quite enough."

Daisy looks embarrassed enough for the both of them. "Goodnight, Mr. Carson." Ivy mumbles a 'goodnight' too, before they wander up the steps, quiet at last.

When they are out of sight, Mrs. Hughes releases a breath. A breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. Mr. Carson turns to her now, hands folded behind his back. She can see that all the bluster and command have left him for the night. Any leftover reproach he had in store had probably vanished and been replaced with a mixture of surprise and uneasiness. His eyebrows are slightly raised, and she bites her lip, looking down at her hands.

"They're probably mistaken," she says, after a long time. She hears herself say the words, but doesn't feel them.

Mr. Carson clears his throat. "Yes, of course." He pauses. "They must be." Pauses again. "Silly girls."

She nods in agreement, but still won't look him in the eye. She's watching her hands, wringing them, smiling a little. She can feel his eyes on her, and in turn, feels the blush creep into her cheeks, her neck, the tips of her ears. After all, it's late, the lights are dim, and they're just standing there. Both waiting for something. Waiting for the other to speak first. She shouldn't be smiling, really, because she knows in her heart that even if there had been a chance from them, they'd long since passed it. But she can't help it. Because she knows that they're thinking the same thing now. Knows that, at this very moment, he's looking at her, and he's wondering what it would be like to be her husband. Have her as his wife. Knows that, right now, he's looking at her the way a man looks at a woman – not a housekeeper, but a woman. His woman. And of course, that he knows she's thinking about it too – it makes her smile grow slightly.

"Mrs. Hughes…" he says, and his voice is lower now, husky even.

She looks up. "Yes, Mr. Carson?"

He watches her for a long moment, as if he were sizing her up. But she knows better – he's sizing them up, the situation, this moment they're sharing. And each time they come away from home waters, it's been this way, and each time; she has waited, scarcely allowing herself to hope. Maybe it is enough that she has him with her now, that she has the satisfaction of knowing he'd thought about marrying her at least once in his life. Maybe it is enough that they were together in all the ways that really mattered. It has to be enough, she knows, because he's withdrawing again, and she sees the transformation, the way he puts all his walls back up, hardens his face again, clears his throat.

"It's late," says Mr. Carson. And she smiles now because it's funny really, that she even considered it. Considered hoping. "I'll say goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Mrs. Hughes turns to the hall again, to retrieve Her Ladyship's hat – something she had to do, since they've yet to find a replacement for Miss O'Brien. She hears Mr. Carson locking the door, as she ties a knot in the thread, puts the needles and spool back in the box. She finishes just before him and, in vain, tries to avoid another encounter with him tonight. The moment had been lost again, and there is no sense in dwelling on it, she knows. But he is just behind her as she ascends, and she can feel the heat of him against her back, senses his tiredness, ignores his breath that falls on her neck. They are half way there when she feels him stop, and considers stopping too.

"Wait," he says, and it sounds like a plea, something strangled. Something he's saying against every fibre of his own being.

With a sigh, Mrs. Hughes turns, and she's surprised that they're almost face to face. He is only one step down from her, and his fingertips reach to touch her hand on the railing. "Perhaps…" he hesitates.

She sees the bob in his throat as he swallows. His eyes had become dark, and he's looking at her, looking for something. She lets him look, lets his eyes dance over her features, pause briefly at her lips. Lets him find his way back to her eyes, but this time, she is not smiling. She doesn't know what he's looking for, but she doesn't think she has it. She wonders what questions are arising in his mind, if he is still thinking about marriage. Were they staying at the estate or in a cottage? How old were they? Would they have children? She wonders what thoughts he has of _them_.

Him and her.

Mr. and Mrs. Carson. Having a small ceremony, maybe? Exchanging rings? Getting into a bed together at the end of a long day? Him holding her in the dark? Pinning her down with his masculine weight and kissing her, touching her… She closes her eyes, opens them again, wills the thoughts to go away. They shouldn't be here now, when he's so close. When he's fumbling for the right words, and they're alone in the dark and so close to their beds. She shouldn't be here anymore – should have been in her room an eternity ago. But her feet don't move, and she's waiting for him to speak now. She's waiting, even though it's been twenty years of silence. She wonders if there are, actually, any words capable of filling such a silence.

"Perhaps?" she asks, still waiting, maybe just a little hopeful.

He clears his throat, looks at the ground, at their feet. "Perhaps…" His voice is barely above a whisper now. "We might find out more about this story tomorrow."

And there it is again – that smile. Mrs. Hughes bites her lip, just barely keeps it from lighting up her face. "Yes, I suppose we might."


End file.
